


Poison

by grahamhannah53



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Possibly OOC?, Ramsay is his own warning, Smut, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamhannah53/pseuds/grahamhannah53
Summary: A songfic based on Poison by Alice Cooper in which Ramsay loves his dogs, the reader is v kinky, and everything is just a huge mess.(May or may not have been inspired by the movie Troy)





	Poison

**_X~_ ** _ Your cruel device, _

_ Your blood like ice.  _ **_~X_ **

 

Ramsay Snow was the subject of many false assumptions, but perhaps the most absurd of these assumptions was that he was incapable of love. Ramsay loved a great many things. He loved sex, hunting, torture, drinking…but most of all, he loved his girls. Yes, yes, his infamous dogs-- the Bastard’s bitches. They were his true loves, his most prized possessions. His girls were solid and steadfast-- simple creatures, yet smarter than any man he knew. Everyone who knew Ramsay knew how much he loved his dogs, and most had the good sense to know that even the smallest misstep with those precious girls meant instant death-- it varied from occasion to occasion whether Ramsay or the girls themselves made the killing blow, but the end result remained the same. 

So, understandably, Ramsay’s first reaction when he found a girl  _ petting _ and  _ cooing _ at one of his bitches was ineffable, uncontrollable, unadulterated rage. 

Just before Ramsay snatched the girl to him by the bodice of her dress, he saw Kyra (the hound in question)  _ wag her tail _ and was so shocked that he paused just long enough to hear what the girl was saying. 

“You're such a  _ pretty _ girl, yes you are! I wonder who you belong to. They must be  _ very _ lucky to have such a sweet baby girl.”

For the first time in his natural-born life, Ramsay Snow found it difficult to restrain himself from murdering someone in public.

He whistled sharply, calling his dog to him. Obediently, Kyra went to his side, and the girl she had been with looked up at him, surprised, but after a moment a spark of recognition lit in her eyes. 

“My lord,” she curtsied lowly, but there was an indifference in her voice that irked Ramsay. “Good morning.”

“The same to you, my dear.” Ramsay's malicious smile crept onto his face unbidden at the thought of how she might sound as she screamed. “I see you and my Kyra were getting along splendidly.”

The girl smiled softly, her lips arching with a grace the gods withheld from noble ladies and gave exclusively to pretty peasant girls. “She's beautiful.”

Ramsay nodded. Even if this wench was a peasant, she had a good eye for beauty. “So she is. I would know your name-- it’s not often that my dogs allow any human touch besides my own,” he noted, scratching Kyra’s ear. “You're lucky my darling girl didn't tear your to shreds.”

“My name is (y/n), my lord.” The reply was made short and clipped-- almost strained-- but (y/n)’s face gave nothing away.

“(Y/n).” Ramsay rolled the name around in his head, testing whether or not he found it agreeable. After a moment of consideration, he decided it was so. “A lovely name. It suits you-- you're a lovely girl.”

Ramsay looked for all the usual signs-- a blush, a tremble, a downcast gaze-- but he found only a sad smile that never even reached (y/n)’s sparkling (e/c) eyes. 

“Thank you, my lord.”

There was no fear in this girl, nor was there desire-- there was only a thin layer of casual respect in her disposition, and beneath it lay something deeper, something more. Ramsay didn't like that. He didn't like not knowing, didn't like secrets. Secrets didn't make friends, after all. 

“What family are you from?” he queried, feigning mild curiosity. 

“Not one you would know, my lord,” she shrugged. “They're all gone now anyway. My mother died giving birth to my youngest brother, and my father took the boys and went off to fight for the north.”

“Leaving you here alone,” Ramsay finished, an idea forming in his head that he very much liked. 

“Yes.”

“Alone is no way to live for a lovely young girl such as yourself,” Ramsay said, his voice rich with feigned compassion. “A crying shame. My father didn't raise a son who would let such a thing happen under his rule. Would you like to come with me where I can make sure all your needs are met? You already won the heart of this carnivorous beast,” he smiled, patting Kyra’s head. “And I'm sure you'll be one of the girls in no time.”

_ Yes, one of the girls. My bitch. My loyal, obedient bitch. _

(Y/n)’s eyes grew wide with shock, her gaze darting from Ramsay to Kyra and back to Ramsay. She searched his eyes for an answer, but Ramsay revealed nothing either.  _ Choose _ , he thought.  _ Choose very, very carefully, lovely girl.  _

“I can hardly refuse an offer from you, my lord.” It was a pity (y/n) had stopped looking so pathetically confused. Ogling fish was such a good look on her. Ramsay supposed he would have to befuddle her often, then, just for the sheer hell of it.

“Very wise, my dear,” he replied with a wide grin, offering (y/n) his arm. “Now, how do you feel about the color pink?”

“I'm quite neutral to it, my lord. Never fancied it my color, but I've never worn it so I'm no real judge of it myself.”

“We will have to remedy that, then. I have many fine fabrics in every shade of the color, and seamstresses to fit you. Would you like that, my dear?” Ramsay asked, his most charming smile forced onto his features.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” she paused a moment, as though thinking. “You are too kind.”

_ Right you are, my dear, right you are.  _ “Well, I am ever the extremist,” Ramsay admitted as he mounted his horse. “Come, dear one, and I will have chambers prepared for you.”

 

*

True to his word, Ramsay  _ did _ have rooms prepared for his delightfully ignorant guest. They were joined to his own, as he showed (y/n) with barely-contained glee-- glee that was more caused by him considering what fun he would have training his new bitch than considering his own generosity. 

_ Just when she thinks she's safe, she will discover that she's the sheep that decided to lie down with the wolves,  _ Ramsay thought to himself as he watched her face carefully. She really was very lovely, with a face that would wear pain well and skin that he would love to bruise. And to think that she was blissfully unaware of what was to come!  _ A sweet little lamb indeed. _

The more Ramsay thought about this girl, the more perfect she seemed. He even became a little lightheaded thinking of what he would do to her-- of what her blood would look like smeared across her body, how those lovely eyes would widen as she fought for breath. He worked himself up so much that by dinner he had to excuse himself for a few moments to regain control. Ramsay knew he shouldn't count his eggs before the chickens fucked, but seven _hells_ he was hungry for something more than casual dinner conversation, more than this game of I-look-away-when-you-look-at me, more than this _boring_ _shite._ He wanted-- no, _needed_ \-- more.

And more he got-- just not in the way he expected.

Long after Ramsay had retired to his chambers, he began to drift off, tired from a day of scheming. Just as he was on the cusp of sleep, he felt the coldness of a blade press against his throat, and he went very still as a smile spread so widely across his face that it hurt.

“Do it,” Ramsay breathed, opening his eyes to see (y/n)’s lovely face staring down at him, made luminous by the light of the moon that shone into his chambers. “Do it. Go on, you’ve got me. Nothing is easy.”

“Aren't you afraid?” The question might have had more weight if she hadn't been trembling like a leaf. 

“Valar morghulis,” he murmured huskily through his smile, his voice deepened by sleep. 

(Y/n)’s whole body shivered at that, but the knife at Ramsay's throat was steady.

“You betrayed Robb Stark to the Freys,” she said, her eyes wide and fierce as her chest heaved with adrenaline. “You stormed Winterfell not to free it from the Greyjoys, but to have it for yourself.”

_ What a naïve little dove.  _ “Those are my father's sins, not mine, sweetling. You’ll have to try harder than that.” Ramsay let himself sink into his bed, relaxed, only to have the knife pressed more insistently against him. The sensation of his quickened pulse against metal went straight to his cock, the thrill of the moment setting his insatiable desires aflame.

“You poisoned your brother,” she accused him. “You murder, you  _ rape _ . You waste innocent lives for pleasure. You tortured Theon Greyjoy until he forgot who he was. You’re hardly human.”

Ramsay chuckled. “If you think for one second that I did not love my _dear_ brother Domeric… Well, you are correct.” Ramsay felt himself grin, leaning up against the knife so that his breath fanned (y/n)’s face. “But I am not a woman, a coward, or a eunuch. If I killed him it would have been by carving out his heart and feeding it to the bloody leech we both called father. On all the other counts, I must admit that you are right. I torture, I rape, I murder, I debase-- does that trouble you? Do you think I deserve death?”

“If I don't kill you, you will hurt more people.” (Y/n)’s sweet, honeyed voice tremored ever so slightly, and she raised the knife only a hair as Ramsay leaned even farther up-- far enough so that he could smell the sweet pauper's perfume she must have put on hours before.

“Oh yes, many,” he smirked. “So what are you so afraid of? Do it. If you're confident that I'm a monster,  _ kill me now _ .”

She broke, just as Ramsay had known she would, and she threw the knife from the bed as though it had burned her. Ramsay pulled her into a bruising kiss, dropping the knife he'd had hidden beneath the sheets. Oh, how he'd wanted to take her then and there, fuck her until she bled-- but not tonight. He would save his enthusiasm for another time.

When he pulled away, (y/n)’s eyes were soft and warm.

“Oh, darling, I'm going to destroy you.”

*

 

**_X~_ ** _ One look could kill _

_ My pain, your thrill.  _ **_~X_ **

  
  


(Y/n) had always had terrible taste in men, but this was absolutely ridiculous.

She had very nearly killed him. She had been so close…Ramsay Snow, the epitome of evil, had been right beneath her knife, his blood pumping hard against sharp steel, and she threw it all away.

And what for? 

At first, (y/n) wasn't sure. 

She struggled to sleep that night, trapped between Ramsay’s arm and a (ridiculously comfortable) bed, wondering what the morning would bring. After a while, she managed to drift into a light slumber, but when she woke, it was to an empty room and a locked door.

Anticipation gnawed at (y/n)’s gut. What was she to do? The window was far too high above the ground for escape that way-- banging on the door would accomplish nothing aside from letting the whole of Winterfell know that she was awake. It seemed that there was nothing to do but wait and try not to mentally collapse in the process. The eerie silence of the room alone nearly drove (y/n) mad, the sound of her blood rushing through her body seemingly magnified to fill her ears. 

Just as (y/n) began to reconsider her earlier observation about the window, the door she had been staring at swung open, and Ramsay Snow entered, wearing his usual snarling smirk. 

“Good morning, sweetling,” he intoned in that velvety voice that sent shivers down (y/n)’s spine. “I hope you didn't think I'd forgotten about you-- I only had some business to take care of. I so  _ hated _ to be away from my new pet for so long, but the duties of a lord called.”

_ If you think I'm going to dignify that with a response, you're dead wrong _ , (y/n) thought, tightening her hands into fists of her skirts, but before she had a chance to say anything, Ramsay offered her his arm. In his beautiful, ice-cold eyes was a message.

_ Take the arm, or face the unknown. Choose.  _

(Y/n) stood and took Ramsay's arm.

“As my new pet, you will need to be trained, as I'm sure you understand, but first I will have to punish you,” Ramsay informed her gleefully, his full lips playing at a smile. “Do you know why? It’s unjust to punish a pet if it doesn’t know what it did wrong.”

(Y/n) clenched her jaw.  _ I will not stoop to this. I will not. _

“Come on my sweet, do you know what you did?” It was terrifying how Ramsay's voice remained so calm, so soft and sweet despite the sharp edge of his intent, but this sort of terror was warm and searing in (y/n)’s stomach, so different than the cold fear she knew before. This was something else entirely-- something base, something raw, something  _ thrilling. _

When (y/n) offered no answer to Ramsay’s question, he stopped completely, turning to face her. His nose was only inches away as he grabbed her by the jaw, and commanded, “ _ Speak. _ ”

“I tried to kill you.” The answer was out of (y/n)’s mouth before she could stop it, and Ramsay released his grip on her face, undoubtedly leaving imprints where his nails dug into her skin.

“Good, pet.”

(Y/n) hung her head, fixing her eyes on the floor.  _ Don't let him see. Don't let him know, gods, never let him find out. _

Ramsay paused to open the door to what (y/n) supposed was the dungeons, and they descended into the bowels of Winterfell side by side.

“This will be where most of your training takes place as well as any punishment,” Ramsay said with a milk-curdling smile. “We wouldn’t want the rest of Winterfell to know what we get up to, now would we?”

(Y/n) swallowed thickly. 

Ramsay led her to a large table that stood next to a bed, which was placed in front of what (y/n) recognized as a cross-- the same cross Theon Greyjoy had been tortured at. All at once, (y/n)’s knees felt weak and her chest felt empty, but Ramsay’s strong arm supported her weight so that she wouldn't fall. He said nothing, but the way he looked at her said it all-- he knew how she would react, and he reveled in her fear.

“Bend over the table.”

Trembling violently, (y/n) did as she was bid, and she had a few short, blissful moments to regain control before Ramsay turned around and was able to see her face. She couldn't let him see. She could not and she  _ would _ not. 

“Now, pet, this is both a punishment and your first lesson,” Ramsay informed her as he turned to reveal a wooden paddle in his hand. “Any time I strike you, you are to count. For every time you do not, I will cut one lock of your lovely hair down to the root. Do you understand?”

Just one look could give it all away. If Ramsay ever found out how much this affected her, he would just slit her throat and be done with it-- because as sick as he was to gain pleasure from torture, she was the more so for feeling this wad of arousal stir in her belly at the thought of his hands undressing her, of his arm swinging that board against her backside.

“Yes, my lord,” (y/n) replied, her mouth feeling full of cotton. 

Ramsay tutted. “That was pitiful. Look at me. Do. You. Understand?”

(Y/n) managed to raise her eyes to Ramsay, praying he did not see what she felt.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Ramsay walked leisurely behind her, his steps making not a sound. He pushed up the fabric of her dress, ripped off her knickers, and pulled down her stockings

He waited so long to strike that the first blow came almost unexpectedly.

_ Smack. _

“One,” (y/n) gasped, the sting of the paddle bringing blood from her head to her rear.

_ Smack, smack. _

“Two. Three.”

With every strike, (y/n) wanted more, more,  _ more _ . Somewhere past twenty, her mouth counted without her mind as her skin of her ass became raw with the blows.

_ I need more, I need more, I need more. I want his hands on me, I want to feel his skin, I want it all. _

(Y/n) caught herself mid-thought. It was one thing to want the pain-- it was quite another to want the man that was currently inflicting it.

_ What am I doing? Why do I want this? This man is the Bastard of Bolton, a murderer, a rapist, a  _ monster…  _ He is everything I hate, and yet…  _

And yet she wanted him nonetheless.

This was what she had chosen to trade that one chance to kill the Bastard of Bolton for, and she didn't regret that choice in the least.

  
  


**_X~_ ** _ I wanna love you but I better not touch. _

_ I wanna hold you but my senses tell me to stop.  _ **_~X_ **

  
  


Ramsay decided to stop when blood began pouring from (y/n)’s backside.

He really had gotten quite carried away-- she was just so  _ responsive. _ And obedient as well-- the poor girl had practically screamed the last number that Ramsay had lost count of. As he prodded his fingers into the bloody wounds on (y/n)’s backside, he wished he hadn't gone so roughly for day one-- his cock was achingly hard, and he wanted to fuck his bitch very badly, but at this point she might actually pass out if he tried, and then it wouldn't be any fun. 

“You wear punishment very well, love,” Ramsay praised, admiring the way the crimson color of blood brought out the sheen of (y/n)’s skin. “I dare say you have earned some water, and perhaps a bite of breakfast. Can you still walk?”

Instead of answering, (y/n) only shook her head.

That simply would not do.

“Answer me. Speak, pet, when I ask you a question.”

“No, my lord,” she replied hoarsely, her face pressed against the table. 

“Better. Be a good pet, now, and try to straighten up,” Ramsay instructed, steadying (y/n) as best he could. “You just think it hurts now. Wait until tomorrow. You really won't be able to move then.”

As feeble as (y/n) was in that moment, it would have been completely acceptable, probably even preferable, for Ramsay to be a little more physical-- an arm around her frame, a supporting hand here or there-- but something inside him flashed a warning. No matter how badly he wanted to touch her, to be physically closer and maximize her discomfort, he couldn't make himself do so. It just felt…off. 

“Lie down on the bed here, and I'll return shortly. Move so much as an inch from the spot and I will make you regret it for the rest of your life.”

That last bit wasn't really necessary, but Ramsay just liked giving threats. They always rolled so easily off the tongue. Especially since he meant them.

It was with a light spirit and cheery  countenance that the Bastard of Bolton skipped up to the kitchens and fixed a tray of the finest breakfast Winterfell had to offer, bringing along some soft cloth with which to clean and bandage the mess he'd made.

  
  


**_X~_ ** _ I wanna kiss you but I want it too much, _

_ I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison-- You’re poison running through my veins. I don't want to break these chains _ **_~X_ **

  
  


(Y/n) discovered along and along just how controlling Ramsay could be.

Though he was cruel and cold and mean, Ramsay was not as she thought. He was very calculating-- she would have taken him for a mindless, rash beast, but Ramsay had the patience of a saint and the desires of a demon. In fact, he was somewhat of a paradox in that his intention was to bend and break (y/n)’s will, but he refused to push beyond what he thought she could handle. It was like he wanted to choose the day that he broke her, to control the process of “breaking his bitch” right down the the last moment. (Y/n) didn't know if that was thrilling or terrifying.

As for daily life, it changed drastically for (y/n) in the next few weeks. If she were to have a bath, it was Ramsay who gave it. If she were to have any clothes, Ramsay would choose what they were and would dress her in them as he saw fit. Any time (y/n) endeavored to make her own decisions, a punishment was issued, each punishment worse than the last. Needless to say, (y/n) fought like a wild animal to maintain any scraps of dignity she had left, but it always resulted in more of the same-- a punishment that proved more and more a pleasure.  

But today? 

_ Oh _ , today she had earned something terrible, and the thrill of it made her heart pound.

It all began when (y/n) woke earlier than usual, and found herself able to slip from beneath Ramsay's arms without rousing him. She slipped over to Ramsay's desk where lay a hand mirror that she lifted to eye level. It had been so long since (y/n) had seen herself that the woman staring back at her seemed a stranger. Oddly enough, she had changed for the better-- her face was no longer as thin, her eyes were no longer as dull. Regular meals, despite Ramsay's presence, had done her well. Sure, she had a few more scars, but she reveled in the memory of how she got each one. In fact, she rather preferred having them-- they reminded her of the patterning on the pretty alley cat that used to piss around the edges of her house. All in all, she looked…  _ beautiful. _

Just when (y/n) had decided she had looked her fill, Ramsay began to stir on the bed. (Y/n) tried to fit herself beneath his arm before he woke, but it was too late. He  _ knew-- _ she could feel it.

“What were you doing up before your master, pet?” Ramsay asked, piercing her to the mattress with those eyes of pure ice. “Thinking to escape? Make another attempt on my life?”

“I-I wasn't up.” Lying was probably a terrible idea, but what was (y/n) supposed to say? If she said she was looking in the mirror, he would either believe her a liar or take the mirror away or both. 

Ramsay glowered at her, grabbing her by the front of her shift and hauling her up to look into her eyes, where he could read anything and everything he needed to know.

For a few breaths, there was silence.

“Liar,” he snarled, shoving her away. “What have I  _ told _ you about lying?”

_ That lying would get me in more.trouble than confessing my wrongs.  _ “I don't know, my lord. I can't remember.”

“Another lie.” Ramsay was livid. “I suppose I was remiss in thinking that you could be treated delicately and still be properly trained. I see now that is not the case. Today I will be making up for lost time, my dear, so I would prepare myself were I you.”

And that was that.

Ramsay wasted little time with his breakfast-- he even had it sent up instead of going down arm-in-arm with (y/n) as usual. Once they had both eaten, Ramsay wasted even  _ less  _ time getting the two of them to the dungeons, not even bothering to dress (y/n) in anything but her shift.

A thousand different scenarios played through (y/n)’s head as she tried to guess her punishment. She wondered if it would be something similar to last week with the hot candle wax, or if it would be more like the first paddling she was given. Or maybe it would be something entirely new.

Without words, Ramsay shoved (y/n) onto the bed, binding her wrists and ankles to the bedposts with leather straps. She could feel his rage rolling off him in waves, and already she knew that there would be no hiding the wetness between her legs if he decided to remove her shift and leave her only in her smallclothes -- (y/n) would be completely exposed, unable to do much more than squirm in resistance.

“Open your mouth.”

She obeyed, and completely without warning, Ramsay shoved his fingers down her throat.

Even as (y/n) fought the urge to vomit, she sucked on Ramsay’s fingers as though they were coated in the sweetest of honey. To have this man, this handsome, horrible man, touching her like this, making her feel all of these things that she had never felt before, was something she could never become accustomed to.

It was in that moment that (y/n) realized that this was what she had needed from life all along. She needed food, shelter, a controlled atmosphere-- here she had that, but even more so, she needed someone that she could indulge in her most awful urges without fear of hurting someone or being hurt. As completely insane and foolish as it was…(y/n) trusted Ramsay not to take her farther than she could come back from. She wanted very badly to kiss him, to taste the sweet venom that surely laced his lips.

(Y/n) wasn't sure who that made the crazier, but she  _ did  _ know that she never wanted to break these chains.

  
  


**_X~_ ** _ Your mouth so hot, _

_ Your web, I'm caught. _

_ Your skin so wet _

_ Black lace on sweat.  _ **_~X_ **

  
  


“A good pet does not lie,” Ramsay snarled, withdrawing his fingers from (y/n)’s hot, yielding mouth. “You should have  _ faith  _ in me to be just.”

The sting of betrayal still lingered in Ramsay's chest. He'd thought, if only for a little while, that (y/n) had learned to trust him. It angered him beyond reason that she was yet resistant to his will, so doubtful of his intent-- after all, he had hardly done anything absolutely awful to her after he'd gotten carried away with the paddle. He only wanted her to be loyal, to know her place, before she was made truly one of his girls. 

“Why did you lie?” he demanded, brushing his thumb over (y/n)’s bottom lip. “Did you fear my wrath?”

“No, my lord,” she replied sweetly, looking perfectly angelic as saliva shone on her lips. Ramsay fought the urge to say all was forgiven and give in to his own needs.

“Then why?”

No answer.

“Do we need to go back to the beginning of your lessons, my sweet, stubborn girl?”

“No, my lord, I only--”(y/n) stopped herself before she could say more.

“Only what?” Ramsay asked, bringing his face closer to her own, as if they were two opposite sides of a magnet.

“I wanted to,” she admitted shakily.

Ramsay pulled away. “I see. We shall have to fix that.” He strode over to where he kept a bucket of water and lye soap on hand, ripping a strip of his undershirt to use as a cloth. (Y/n)’s eyes followed him as he'd known they would, which only made Ramsay smile all the wider.

“I'll just wash your mouth of that filth, and we'll have no more lies from you.”

(Y/n) may have caught him in her little web of deception, but it would be she who would be caught undressed, was it were. Before washing out her mouth, Ramsay ripped off (y/n)’s shift so that he could pour the remainder of the water over her when he was finished-- he damn well meant that since she put him through all this trouble, he was going to enjoy watching her shiver as her lace smallclothes clung to her wet skin on the way back to his chambers.

  
  
  


**_X~_ ** _ I hear you calling and it's needles and pins _ **_~X_ **

  
  


When Ramsay told (y/n) that he would be going away for a while to attend to his father's business, she thought that she might enjoy herself a bit, especially since she still hadn't quite forgiven him for the mouth washing incident. 

(Y/n) was as wrong as snow in Dorne.

She was bored. Bloody  _ bored _ . All of Winterfell to herself, and without Ramsay everything was  _ boring _ . (Y/n) was unable to do anything but sit and sulk and wait for Ramsay's return, alternating between the window, the floor, and the desk of their shared room. 

Day after day, night after night, it was more of the same. After a week, the sheets no longer smelled like Ramsay. After two, (y/n) notice the bed feeling colder. After two and a half, she was ready to go half mad.

Just when (y/n) thought she could take no more, one day she woke up and  _ knew  _ Ramsay was back. She felt his presence calling her to him like the waves called to the shore-- pins and needles ran all along her body, and it was before the sun had even risen that (y/n) made her way to the gates to meet him.

For all her trouble, it seemed that this Ramsay was not the Ramsay that she had been expecting.

(Y/n) had thought that Ramsay would be as lively and enthusiastic as ever-- she had just assumed that he would either pat her on the head for coming to him or scold her for leaving her permitted areas without permission, that his eyes would light up with his familiar morbid excitement, but he did none of those things. The Ramsay that sat in the saddle of the red stallion that belonged to the  _ real _ Ramsay was a shell of what he should be. His eyes were hollow, his expression was numb, and he seemed particularly uninterested in any human interaction. 

Ramsay's condition did not change even when he stopped his horse in front of (y/n), hardly acknowledging her existence. 

“Welcome home, my lord,” (y/n) greeted him hesitantly, careful to give his mean-tempered stallion a wide berth. “Winterfell was not the same without you.”

Ramsay's eyes studied her, their usual spark replaced by melancholy. “Ride with me.”

(Y/n) took the hand up that was offered her and mounted behind Ramsay, wrapping her arms around his waist. Immediately, her nose was filled with the smell of horse and hay and sweat and  _ Ramsay _ , and there was not a happier woman in all the north. Warmth spread from his body to her own, even through several layers of clothing, and (y/n) felt at home. She was almost disappointed when they had to dismount-- (y/n) knew she was not allowed to be physically close to Ramsay in public, but she had missed him just as much physically as she had mentally and emotionally, and she wanted to stay with her arms wrapped around him forever. 

“Come, pet. I have good news,” he told her, extending his arm. “There will be feasting tonight. You'll need to wear your finest gown.”

All this was said absently, as though he were in a trance. But, since (y/n) wasn't given much more of an option, she simply complied, walking with him up the dimly-lit stairs to their chambers.

Then, as soon as the lock on their chamber door was in place, Ramsay spoke as though unable to remain silent.“I have been naturalized. My last name is Bolton. Roose is now-- he’s now my father in name as well as blood.”

“That's good, my lord,” (y/n) smiled, taking his hands in her own. “I'm very proud for you.”

“He's married now, you know.”

(Y/n) paused. “Pardon?”

“Walder Frey offered my father his bride's weight in silver. He's now married to Fat Walda.” 

(Y/n) didn't know what to do. She was at a loss for words-- she had no idea what Ramsay needed right now, no idea how to handle any of this. 

“Ramsay,” she began gently, squeezing his hands. “I'm sure that doesn't make you any less his son in his eyes and in the eyes of the law.”

“Doesn't matter.” Ramsay wouldn't even look at her, his gaze downcast. 

(Y/n) moved one of her hands to the side of his face. “Oh, Ramsay--”

“ _ Do not touch me, _ ” he hissed jerking away from her. 

(Y/n) backed away, sadness creeping into her stomach. “My apologies, my lord.”

Ramsay spent the rest of the day silently avoiding every single human life inside Winterfell, and (y/n) had no idea how to fix him. 

  
  
  


**_X~_ ** _ I wanna hurt you just to hear you screaming my name,  _

_ Don’t wanna touch you but you’re under my skin, _

_ I wanna kiss you but your lips are venomous poison. _ **_~X_ **

  
  
  


_ “You are my son now more than ever. You will have to learn to control yourself, Ramsay. No Bolton can be spoken of the way people speak of you.” _

Roose Bolton's voice played on repeat in the back of Ramsay's head, driving him mad moment by moment. Every second Ramsay spent in solitude was a kick to the chest, but leaving his chambers for even a moment made him feel horribly nauseated. This was it-- Ramsay had finally gotten what he always wanted and he  _ still _ wasn't good enough for his father. There seemed to be nothing left worth striving for. Life had brought him nothing but dissatisfaction, and Ramsay was quite finished with it. 

But (y/n), of all people, was not dealing well with this change. 

She had become more intemperate, more ill-disciplined, and bloody well more irritating than when she had first come to Winterfell. Whenever he was feeling his worst, she was always did something to get under Ramsay's skin-- whether she was questioning his moods, testing his patience with her nonconformity, or being unbearably foolish, (y/n) never ceased to make Ramsay grind his teeth so hard his jaw might snap. He had never thought that he would see a day when she would prove too frustrating to continue, but Ramsay was turning out to be wrong about a lot of things these days.

Really and truly, though, Ramsay didn't snap until (y/n) pushed the one button she had never pushed before. She knew the rule as well as everyone at Winterfell did-- never,  _ ever _ , come between the Bastard of Bolton and his meal. 

It had been a normal evening as far as Ramsay's standards. He'd even gone hunting a bit after before and brought home some fresh game-- he felt great. (Well, not great-- less like a piss-pot than usual, though.) Ramsay even expected that tonight's sleep would be somewhat peaceful, and he was quite looking forward to downing a goblet or two of wine with his meal. 

What he  _ wasn't  _ expecting was for (y/n) to dump the contents of said goblet into his lap in front of the entire hall. 

The events immediately following that were somewhat of a blur. Ramsay, angrier than he'd been in weeks, raged at (y/n) like she was a dog, leapt across the table, and dragged her to the dungeons like a man gone mad. He didn't even realize that he'd left the hall until he realized that he was binding (y/n)’s wrists together instead of to a chair or bedpost. 

Oh well. He could hardly change it now.

“What  _ possessed _ you,” he growled, coming face to face with (y/n). “To even  _ think _ about humiliating me in front of  _ my  _ servants in  _ my  _ hall with  _ my own wine? _ Do you think that's some sort of revenge, pet? Do you think you can just  _ do whatever you please  _ without consequences?”

“No my lord,” she breathed, her chest heaving as her eyes lit with some mixture of fear and wonder.

“Then  _ why did you do it? _ ”

Ramsay’s answer did not come in the form of words, but it made itself clear in the insistent press of (y/n)’s lips on his own. Reality slammed into his chest like a spear, and the most wonderful realization of Ramsay’s life formed in his head.

_ She wants this. _

Ramsay, without even realizing it, had kissed (y/n) back, threading his fingers through the silky soft hair that he washed and brushed for her. She tasted like they bread and honey she'd just eaten, and she smelt sweet and sharp and just a little like himself, which was incredibly intoxicating. With just one simple gesture, Ramsay understood it all.

“You wanted it,” he breathed. “You wanted it all along. You deliberately disobeyed me in order to incur a punishment because you…because you wanted it.”

(Y/n) didn't answer, and she didn't need to. The truth was right there in her eyes, shining out in all earnest.

“Would you like for me to untie you, pet, or would you like me to leave you just as you are?” Ramsay asked before capturing her lips once more. “I intend for this to be very satisfying for the both of us.”

“Take off my clothes,” was (y/n)’s only response. 

“You're such a clever girl,” Ramsay smirked, guiding her to the bed, where he crawled on top of her, boots, cape, and all. “You're more of a spider than a bitch-- you've spun the neatest little web and caught me in it, my dear. I am  _ such _ a fool for sickness, after all.” 

“Yes, my lord,” (y/n) replied, wrapping her legs around his torso. “Please,  _ please _ my lord, I want you. I was so worried that you--”

She stopped herself, almost afraid. Ramsay had to laugh.

“Sweetling, I will never leave you, nor will I change who I am. I was just going through a bit of a slump, is all,” Ramsay smiled viciously. “I do, however, apologize-- I had quite forgotten that my bitch goes into heat. It was cruel of me to deny you so. I can only hope you’ll forgive me.”

He layer by layer, he ripped off (y/n)’s clothes, burying his face in her neck, biting and sucking along the way. Ramsay’s hands quickly found her smallclothes and stripped her of them as well. Soon she was completely naked beneath him, and he was still fully clothed. 

“Tell me what you want, my dove,” he murmured in her ear. “I want to hear it.”

“Fuck me, please, Ramsay, I need you, need to feel you, need to--I just--”

“I've got you, pretty one, I've got you.” 

And so he went to work. There were two things that Ramsay was the master of-- pain was one, and pleasure was the other. In this game of both, he was sure to be the best player.

 

*

 

(Y/n) was spoiled for the rest of her life for lovemaking with anyone else besides Ramsay-- it would be humanly impossible to top that night. His every attention was on her and what she was feeling, his hands fluttering from her breasts to her sides, always making sure to keep her overwhelmed with every sensation. And when he had entered her-- _ oh _ he had taken it agonizingly slowly. She thought she might die before Ramsay finally decided to fuck her well and truly, but when he did, she nearly melted at her climax, which was made better by the confessions of love that were exchanged afterward.

Now, Ramsay was sound asleep, and (y/n) took the time to admire how young he looked in his sleep. He seemed peaceful for once, and she snuggled closer to him to take the edge off of the northern chill while she had the chance. 

There were still those who called Ramsay Bolton poison, but if his love was the venom then it was (y/n)’s drug of choice. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
